


Life without you

by WritingOutLoud



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comfort, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, POV John Watson, argument
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:08:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22199869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingOutLoud/pseuds/WritingOutLoud
Summary: After Sherlock gets himself hurt on a case, John reminisces over their life together
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 27
Kudos: 111





	Life without you

My phone buzzes in my pocket during a consult, and I check it as soon as the patient has left the room.

**Inspector Lestrade:**

_Call me_

He picks up on the first dial.

“Hi, John, Sorry to bother you at work. Do you mind coming home? Sherlock came in for a case and, well- I think it’s best you take a look at him.” I can hear the sounds of moving cars in the background and the faint noise of Sherlock protesting at the call.

“Sure, I’ll be out as soon as I can.”

“Thanks, mate, see you soon.”

Half an hour later, when I walk through the door, I am greeted not with the sprained ankle or grazed head that I expected, but Sherlock lay on the sofa, makeshift dressings covering a stab wound. _A stab wound for christ’s sake._

For a minute, I just stand in the doorway and stare. Lestrade stays sat in my chair, legs crossed casually, swiping through his phone.

“Whatever you’re about to say, I’ve already said. But please, don't let that stop you- as always he doesn't give a crap about my opinion.” He says, not looking up from his phone.

Silence. I am frozen, staring at the sticky red seeping through my husband's fingers. When I walked in, he looked so sure of himself, his normal cockiness about to jump into action and throw some quip at Lestrade. As I stay motionless in the doorway, it slides slowly off his face, replaced with an expression of _“Shit.”._

Finally, I find the words to express my horror.

“What the fuck have you done now Sherlock.” My voice is thunder. Lestrade sees this as his cue to leave and heads towards the door, giving me a silent nod on the way out. I hear his feet creak on the stairs and the door click shut behind him.

"I was on a case and the suspect started running away; naturally,I chased him, but I didn't know he had a knife and, well, you can see what happened. It’s just superficial, he missed all my organs and-“

“Seriously, Sherlock, is that the line you want to take right now? That it’s fine you got stabbed because _it didn't hit anything important_??” I turn and storm into the kitchen, opening the cupboard under the sink with more force than I need to. The door slams into the adjacent cupboard, the cheap wood chipping against the metal handle. As I walk back to the sofa I take out the dressings and throw the rest of the kit on the floor next to Sherlock. He starts to speak, to explain himself further as if he can simply talk his way through the problem.

“Just shut the fuck up for five minutes. I don’t want to hear your bullshit excuse. What if it wasn't superficial? What if you were bleeding in an alley somewhere and Lestrade had to call me to tell me you were dead, because you’d been stabbed, and you _didn't even tell me you were on a case_.” I shout and ramble, not waiting for replies, cleaning and dressing the wound without care. Sherlock just grits his teeth and breathes through it. I know he can handle it, it’s really not deep and I’ve seen him take worse with no anaesthetic, but I still feel a little bad. It’s not like he stabbed himself. Though, I wouldn't put it past him.

I stick the last of the dressing down with tape and roughly start packing the dressing back into the kit. This man will be the death of me, I swear.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! I thought we’d got past this? The running off alone without planning or backup. You could have called, I would have come with you.”

“You were working.”

“That hasn't stopped you before.”

We stay, locked in a staring match, me half on the floor, him lay over the sofa, feet tipping off the edge. I want to scream. I want to lash out, let all my fears come pouring out. I don’t. Because I know that wouldn't help. I’d just feel worse than I already do.

“What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry? Because I’m not. I was in an ideal position to catch him and I-“

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want! I want you to apologise! You’re not alone anymore Sherlock, you don't need to go gallivanting off on your own!”

“You told me to stop bothering you at work!”

“Yes, only if it was about what kind of mould is growing in the bread bin, or how Mycroft’s diet has failed again! Not about you running off alone to catch an armed killer.”

“I didn't know he was armed-“

“That’s not the point, Sherlock!” I can feel the anger growing in my chest, multiplying out of proportion. My breath is coming in swells, almost breaking out of my chest.

“I can’t do this.” Before Sherlock has a chance to speak, I’m out, down the stairs and through the door, its knocker bouncing on the hinges behind me. Outside, I don’t think, I just walk- curses flowing with each breath. Images of Sherlock laying dead and bleeding flash across my mind, causing my breath to become more rapid and shallow. _Careful, Watson. You need to calm down before you start panicking._ Right. That’s a thing.

I sit down on the next bench I see; not surprised to find myself in Regent’s park. The pond stretches out in front of me, and the ducks swim lazily along the shore, pecking at the scraps of rubbish left by tourists. I start counting my breaths, trying to slow them down and focusing on the cold on my cheeks.

My one constant, overwhelming fear, is something like this; Sherlock bounding off on his own, blinded by the thrill, and getting himself killed. Something like him bleeding out in an alleyway, scared and alone, and me finding him days later; cold and stiff. I know it comes with the job- the danger, but I always prayed that I would be there with him, to cover his back. Logically, I also know that he managed perfectly fine without me and that my presence doesn't mean he won't get killed, but logic doesn't really play a part in it.

The bench is freezing beneath me. My breath billows through the air like steam and my hands are starting to ache from the chill, but there’s no way I’m going back yet. Let him stew for a bit. Oh, who am I kidding- he probably doesn't give a shit. I’ll go home and nothing will have changed. He’ll still be there, spread out on the sofa, and I’ll be the one that apologises. I always am.

No, that’s not quite true. It would be unfair to say that he hasn’t changed. He has, slowly. He knows Greg’s name now. Or at least, makes a point of using it. Without being prompted. Molly hears the occasional thank you, from Sherlock rather than me, when she lets him take organs or use the lab at god forbidden hours. There are still moments, in the middle of a case, when he’s his old, arrogant self. He still snaps at Anderson, ridicules Donovan. But, I suppose, there is a line. There is only so much you can ask for. But sometimes, I can swear I see him check himself; stop and take pause before speaking. Each time, my heart flutters. I fall a little bit more in love.

*

Years ago, one autumn night, we returned from a case, full of breathless giggles in the corridor, like the first time. The very first time, where I had wanted to reach over and kiss him, stealing more of his breath. To thank him, before I understood to what extent, for saving my life. For presenting me with a gift- with a reason to keep going. I wanted to grab his stupid upturned collar, pull him towards me and kiss him until we both forgot our names. I didn’t, because I was scared. This wasn't some one-time thing, he wasn't just going to disappear out of my life all of a sudden, and I was frightened of what we were. Of what we could be. So I just giggled, and prayed that he understood. And I think, though we’ve never spoken about it explicitly, that he did. Later that night, when that bullet left my gun before I had a chance to think, I was glad that I hadn't closed the gap. That I hadn't reached out and taken what I wanted, because I understood, at that moment, what this was. What he could be, what he could make me, and I realised there that this couldn't be rushed. That one day I would be ready for all of him, not just the midnight chases and adrenaline rushes. One day I would love him for him, not just the gift he had given to me.

Years later, along that same wall, in that same corridor, with the same reckless idiots, I did reach over and kiss him. I took his stupid collar, pulled him closer towards me, and melted into him. Not for the first time, but it felt like it could have been. I suppose that’s the thing about us- we never run out of adrenaline; we don't have dates, we don't have much romance, but we have those moments, full of love, lust and adrenaline. It was unlike any relationship I had ever been in before, but I was happy. More than happy, with the life that we had. It was everything I needed, everything I wanted. So I was surprised, when the question pushed against my lips, not from me, but him.

“Marry me.” My eyes blinked slowly open, and I paused, mere inches between us.

“John Hamish Watson, will you marry me?” I smiled and pulled him back to me until our noses touched and our lips were millimetres apart; “Yes. God yes.” And then we melted into each-other once more.

Later, tangled in sheets and covered in sweat, I told him about my surprise.

“I thought you didn't believe in marriage?” I asked against his skin.

“I didn’t. But you do, and I know you like to do things properly. And- the more I thought about it, the more I realised that if there was a way to make it more clear to the world that I belong to John Watson, then I wanted to do it. Even if it is just a piece of paper.”

*

Now, the park is mostly empty, with only the occasional dog walker meandering past. The ducks have swum away, looking for warmer sleeping grounds. I don't blame them, I’m not much company. I close my eyes and listen to the wind brushing through the trees.

To anyone else, the wedding wasn't special. We just went down to the registry office, surrounded by friends and family, before coming back to 221B to celebrate. It didn't seem like much on the outside, but to us, it was everything. To be allowed, for a start, to sign that paper, knowing that only a year ago we couldn't have. For me, it was the best day of my life- and I’ve had some good ones. I won’t lie and say that I didn't have my concerns- I still had moments where I wondered if it were for the best, moments where he infuriated me with his obsessiveness over cases and his disregard for his humanity, but in the end, I realised that I didn't want to live without them. That these moments were what made Sherlock Sherlock, and I would rather live with kidneys in my microwave than live without them, and him. In the end, it was an easy decision, and one I don't regret. I know Harry always wondered what I saw, why he was the one I chose over all the perfectly ordinary people in the past, the ones who didn't deduce your life story the moment you walked in the room, but she didn't see those moments where he shone. Where he was utterly brilliant, and not just at his deductions or science or cases. His kindness, his insight and ability to make me see the world in a whole new way. Over time, she grew to love him too, as does anyone who takes the time to know him.

It’s not been perfect, there have still been the times where he makes me want to rip my hair out and scream into the void, but I haven't been perfect either. I can be too demanding, too forgetful, too angry at the world for no damn reason. Once we went a whole week refusing to talk to each other because I didn't turn up to a crime scene we had arranged to look at. (I’d had a long day at work, it slipped my mind.) As always, however, we came back to each other.

*

My phone vibrates in my pocket. For a moment, my heart leaps, hoping that it's him, telling me to come home. It’s not. It never is.

**Inspector Lestrade:**

_Is he okay, minus the bollocking you gave him?_

**Me:**

_Yeah, I dressed him up. He’ll be fine_

**Inspector Lestrade:**

_And you? Are you alright?_

**Me:**

_Not really but thanks for asking_

**Inspector Lestrade:**

_Need me to come over?_

**Me:**

_Nah I’m okay, thanks_

_I appreciate it_

*

When I blogged about our relationship for the first time (we both agreed it would be better coming from us than leaking its way out into the press as it inevitably would), some people were surprised. Aside from the few homophobic comments, some people just hadn't seen it coming. Lestrade wasn't one of them. He had a bet going at the Yard, one that I’m not sure who won.

It happened the night after Moriarty and the pool. We didn't say much when we came home. What were you supposed to say to someone after that? I certainly didn't know. We got back, and I showered as soon as possible, trying to wash the weight of semtex off my skin. I could still feel it, a phantom, pushing down on me. I wanted to rip at my skin, pull it away and be rid of it.

Later, I lay sleepless in bed, trying to process everything that had happened. The door opened with a soft click, and the bed sank beside me. I wasn't surprised. I would be lying to say I hadn't half expected it. It wasn't unusual for him to appear after a case, when the adrenaline had worn off and the harsh reality set in. There’s something about risking your life that makes you need validation that you’re not alone. Usually, he stayed on his side, and I stayed on mine, and both of us ignored when in the morning we had met in the middle, me curled tight and him sprawled over the both of us. I told myself I was happy with that. That it was enough. I was lying.

But that night, instead of starting at his end, he immediately came to the middle, his breath tickling the back of my neck. I counted to five, then turned to face him, not wanting to seem eager. His face was like a mirror. I could see everything I was thinking pass through his skin, and on instinct I reached out to touch it, hoping I could wipe it away. He leant into my hand, closing his eyes slightly at the contact. We’d been in some scrapes together, but nothing quite that serious. Moriarty wasn't some run of the mill criminal, and he wasn't backing down. We were both wondering if we had bitten off more than we could chew. And I think, for the first time, we both had begun to consider what we really had to lose.

Before I could convince myself not to, I leant forward and kissed him. _Fuck it._ I thought. If this was our reality from now on, if at any moment we might get blown up, or shot, or burnt, then this is how I wanted to spend it. If we could agree to die together, I could find the courage to do this. I’d waited long enough.

When I broke away his eyes flickered open, and even in the dark, I could see the pattern of blue against green and gold. This time, he was the one that leaned forward. And that was it. The start of messy nights and stolen kisses; his bed become ours and we started in the middle instead of arm lengths apart.

In the dark, much later, with messy sheets and tangled hearts, I heard a whisper, so soft that I wasn't sure I hadn't imagined it.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

I smiled, and whispered back: “I think I’m in love with you too.”

*

Darkness falls fully around me, wrapping around the trees and settling low on the grass. Before I’ve really decided to, my feet carry me upwards, off the bench and down the path home. My muscles ache and cramp from sitting on the cold wood for too long, but I push forward, turning the corner onto Baker street, and realise that I’m not angry anymore. I can’t be. I am still terrified of what could happen- I dread getting that phone call- but that didn't happen today. Maybe it never would.

The upstairs light is on, the window slightly open, and the sounds of a violin drift through onto the street below. It guides me down the street, across the empty road and to the doorstep. Seamlessly, the sounds of Bach turn into the familiar notes of my song. The one he played the evening we got married; the one I have recorded on my phone to listen to whenever he’s away. A smile dances across my face, I can’t help myself, and I pause on the street just to listen and remember how much I love this man.

I push my way quietly through the door, not rushing up the stairs, revelling in the music. And, because I know he will appreciate it, I time my entrance back into the flat with the last note.

He’s standing by the lit fireplace, looking back at me through the mirror, joy and sadness wrapped together around his lips. If his wound is giving him pain, he’s not showing it. I smile back at him, trying to calm his fears. He knows that I do this. That sometimes, I just need to get out. The best thing in an argument is for me to leave, calm down, and then come back and talk about it. He’s used to the dance by now, but I will never get used to the look on his face when I come back. The unsureness, the unspoken questions.

He clears his throat.

“I wasn't sure if-“ He stalls, his eyes flickering down to his bow.

“-if I was coming back?” I finish, taking a step further into the orange lit room. “Sherlock, I always come back. I _will_ always come back.”

He gently places the instrument on the bookcase, and finally turns to face me. The unsureness is still there, the tentative look that I’ve learnt to mean _“I did something wrong, and I’m not sure how to fix it, but I want to make you happy.”_ He stays silent, and I move closer.

“Sherlock, I will not ask you to change. I don’t expect you to, because this is who you are. You run off after madmen not knowing if they’re armed, and if I were there, I would too. I fell in love with you because you are driven to find the answer no matter what. And yeah, it infuriates me sometimes, but that’s my problem, not yours. I chose you, and I still choose you every day.”

I step closer again, until I'm in front of him, and his hands are in my own.

“John, I’m sorry. I should have called. There’s no excuse, I was bored and I thought that I could do it on my own. I was wrong. I apologise.”

“Thank you.”

I lean forward and capture his lips in mine, resolving to ask Mycroft if they make stab-proof suits and if I could trick Sherlock into wearing it.

“I’ll wear whatever you ask if it makes you happy.” He says between kisses, reading my mind as usual and winding his arms around my waist.

“What would make me happy right now, Sherlock Holmes, is you wearing nothing.”

He grins against my mouth, walking me backwards towards the bedroom and pulling at my shirt.

“Doctors orders?”

“Oh definitely.” The door clicks shut behind us.


End file.
